


The May Tree

by crazyparakiss



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-11
Packaged: 2019-05-05 03:33:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14608377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyparakiss/pseuds/crazyparakiss
Summary: They meet again beneath a hawthorn tree—the tree whose branch was chosen to craft their mutual wand. A wand they shared in a war. A war in which they stood on opposite sides. Now they stand facing one another again, and Draco wonders if this—too—is a moment in which they will remain enemies.





	The May Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GingerTodgers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerTodgers/gifts).



> Originally, I wanted so much from this but it grew into pre-HD Slash and a focus of Draco. I wanted it to be full of hope if my brain was set on denying humour. I hope, Ginger, that you enjoy it. I angsted hoping to make you the perfect gift. It's far from perfect, but I think you're rad and hope you find it a worthy piece. 
> 
> The art was a hasty, last-minute decision (hello, mania) and I hope that it's not too awful. This damn light in my house makes it hard to get a good shot of my work and my scanner hates connecting to my computer. 
> 
> The Blaise/Draco is NOT explicit and they are not in love or anything like that. The most that happens is a short kiss after alluded to sex that you get the feeling is only for stress-relief. I hope that's okay. 
> 
> Finally, the redundancy was intentional. 
> 
> Huge shout-out to K for being exceptional and always holding my hand through all my crippling self-doubt. She's a fucking gem. And HUGE thanks to the mod for being the best and hosting my all-time favourite fest. Even though I complain and angst the whole way through it, HDS Beltane will always be THE fest for me. It's just got a lot of nostalgia and I'm so glad it's got a new generation to appreciate its awesomeness.

 

They meet again beneath a hawthorn tree—the tree whose branch was chosen to craft their mutual wand. A wand they shared in a war. A war in which they stood on opposite sides. Now they stand facing one another again, and Draco wonders if this—too—is a moment in which they will remain enemies. 

 

Potter extends a deeply tan hand, holding out the wand that chose Draco at eleven. “I came to return this,” Potter’s words hardly a whisper but Draco hears them as clearly as a shout. “I am grateful for the help it gave.” Draco stares reverently, afraid to take back what Potter won from him—in that home where all his nightmares still reside. Trembling he takes hold of the glossy wood, his heart hammering then calming when it greets him as warmly as it had the first time. 

 

“See you around, Malfoy,” Potter’s lips curl into something friendly, something resembling a smile. The expression takes Draco by surprise because Potter has never given him anything resembling friendship.  

 

Somehow this feels like more—like forgiveness. Something Draco never hoped to ever receive. From Potter least of all. 

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice tight, as Potter cracks out of sight.

 

*

 

Post-Voldemort the world is less grey, boasting hope in every crevice of Diagon Alley—a hope Draco does not share as people move around him with an energy he does not possess. They live. He lives. Yet, it feels wrong to still be here among the others when part of him vanished in war. 

 

_ Who am I?  _ The constant question that whispers in the recesses of his mind. 

 

_ A nothing now.  _ A reply that often fills his memories with the condescension of his father’s dead voice. 

 

He’s startled, from his staring at nothing, by a passing witch who knocks into his knees. “I’m terribly-,” her apology drops away when she gets a look at his face. There’s not a wizard or witch in the world who doesn’t know Draco Malfoy’s mug. Unless they are Muggleborn and new to magic. Even then, they hear the chatter of recent history and learn to distrust the pale shock of near-white hair and angular, haughty features. Mother still tells him he is beautiful, but not even beauty can save him from the expression of disgust that crosses this woman’s face. Draco nearly laughs when her spit hits against his cheek. “You don’t deserve any form of decent manners,” she hisses at him. 

 

Draco’s reply is devoid of the anger or bitterness he would have felt in youth. Now there is a resignation in knowing that her venom is well founded. “You are right, I don’t.” A reply that serves as fuel to the fire of her hatred. She spits again, yelling obscenities at him as she cries. This woman isn’t the first, there have been many—especially that first year when people still actively grieved their dead. The souls Draco’s  _ master _ stole for their unwillingness to bow to his lunacy. 

 

He would ask her who Draco’s naivety, his cowardice, his contentment in prejudice killed but that would be for his own penance. He’s not so selfish as to hurt her to satisfy his own need to repent. So Draco remains silent, accepting all of her rage.  

*

 

Potter, Auror that he is, escorts Draco back to the flat he keeps on Knockturn. The one he hopes will one day boast his blood on the carpets—as the result of his well-deserved death. “You may leave,” he grunts when Potter helps him settle into his broken reclining chair. 

 

“You’re not my master,” Potter points out with the kind of calmness he never had in school. Gone is the Potter that was quick to meet Draco’s nastiness with an acidity of his own. His green eyes scan the room, taking in the sparseness—behind his horrid glasses, Potter has a sharp note of understanding as if he can read Draco’s flat the way Draco could easily read his mind if he desired. It’s unnerving, making him long for the Potter of old. The one Draco knew how to handle. Not this Potter who faces him with earnest compassion. “You can ring me, at the Floo, at any time.” 

 

“Just go,” Draco says, hoping Potter doesn’t hear the way his voice cracks with anguish. 

 

Thankfully, Potter listens. 

 

*

 

“You’re planning a Beltane festival,” Draco’s voice holds a hint of condescension—reminding him strongly of that voice in his head that grows louder each day. Telling him he’s worthless. 

 

“Thought it was time, the world is still trapped in sombre remembrance of those lost in war,” Blaise grins, zipping his trousers. “It’s time we all got pissed on mead and fucked the world full of the next generation.” 

 

Draco frowns, “Don’t be crass, it was a big fucking deal—still is.” 

 

Blaise kisses him on the mouth, something he’s not normally known to do when they meet to have one off together. When Draco’s going mad from lack of human contact, and Blaise is between partners. A rare occurrence for them, but blue moons are known to happen. “It’s been ten years, Draco, it’s time to stop facing all of May with mourning.” His breath is soured from wine and the salt of Draco’s skin, “The war is over.” 

 

_ Is it?  _

 

*

 

His wand has been resting in a box made of mahogany, since that day when Potter met him beneath the tree from which it was cut—an eternity it seems to Draco, but in reality has only been months. Something tells him not to raise the lid, not to look upon that which he covets— _ this is Pandora’s box, what’s inside will lead to doom.  _

 

“It’s just ghosts,” he whispers, aloud, the way his mother taught him in youth. “They cannot do me any harm.” Draco misses the silvery mist of his great-aunt, Agatha, the one who read him tales written by Beedle the Bard. Voldemort is still a taint upon the stones of Malfoy Manor, one that crawls up Draco’s throat and makes him unable to breathe when he looks upon the face of his childhood home. A ghost he’s yet to conquer and so his great-aunt is cursed to roam in empty corridors calling for a family that won’t return. Will opening this box cure him of this wretchedness, Draco wonders and dares—for the first time in years—to hope as he lifts the lid. 

 

There, on black velvet, rests Draco’s wand. When he lifts the slight weight of it something within him sings _ Welcome home.  _

 

*

 

Potter loiters around the bank one unremarkable Wednesday. It’s a cold day for April, and Draco is miffed he’s here. His annoyance doubles when Potter approaches. “What?” Potter is the only one who can bring out the echo of who Draco once was. He is the only wizard who can summon forth the bratty Draco of old. 

 

“Your mother rang me, asking if I’d check on you,” Potter replies. Another thing about this new world that annoys him to no end. The fact that his mother and Potter seem to be  _ mates.  _ Not grudging acquaintances. “She says you finally came to deal with the probate of your father’s estate.” 

 

“I wanted them to seize the lot of it,” Draco replies with a petulance Potter doesn’t seem keen to indulge. 

 

“Don’t act the martyr, Draco, it doesn’t suit you,” though he appears almost fond as he speaks those words. 

 

“As if you know me so well,” Draco hisses in reply. Stung that Potter doesn’t believe him selfless enough to give everything he’s left away to ease his own guilt. Perhaps that isn’t selfless, but there is some nobility in giving away what he has when he has far too much. 

 

“I know you,” Potter murmurs, stepping closer but not too close to cause alarm. “It took you six months to touch the wand.” 

 

“How-” but Potter cuts him off by moving close enough for Draco to feel his heat through their clothes. 

 

“One month for each year at school that you were an absolute nightmare.” His voice is a damp puff of air at Draco’s small ear, “Am I wrong?” 

 

He’s not, but Draco refuses to admit what he’s sure Potter already knows. 

 

*

 

Potter is seducing him. Or so it seems each time Draco takes the length of wood into his palm. Warmth blooms through him, but not the sort of warmth one associates with a mother or a friend—this is a fire that burns through his veins. One that threatens to consume him, turn him to ash from the inside out. Draco welcomes the sensation, becomes addicted to the way he grows faint at the lust that flows into him. Potter is hungry. Draco  _ knows.  _ It’s Potter’s magic in him, connecting them in ways Draco does not understand. 

 

_ It is just a wand. A wand we shared. The second one.  _

 

As he grips the wood tighter he whimpers, coming without ever having to touch himself. Shame covers his skin in a deep, rosy glow and he wonders if Potter knows this about him too. 

 

*

 

“There’s a glow to your skin,” Pansy informs him, chewing at her bitten down thumbnail. 

 

“Is there,” he tries to remain neutral. It’s been weeks since they were last together—she probably worried he’d locked himself away again and so she’d rang at the Floo. Interrupting Draco from tasting more of Potter’s magical remnants. Something to which he’s quickly becoming addicted.

 

“Were you fucking someone when I popped in,” she demands, already rising from her chair to go investigate his room. For a large woman, Pansy is fast. Faster and in better shape than Draco despite his slight form. Something she often bemoans when she tells him how her horrid mother is after her to lose weight for  _ health reasons _ . “No wonder you look flush,” she chuckles at him, over her shoulder, “You’re out of shape and exerting yourself for once.” Beneath her breath, she mutters and he can barely make out the words, “About fucking time.”  

 

Draco tisks, but hurries after her before she can see his wand. He’d much rather she believe he’s hiding a woman or a man in his room. She’ll let him alone if she believes he’s behaving like the living again. Having one off once a year with Blaise isn’t human enough for her. 

 

“Just fuck off,” his words seem harsh but his tone is pleading as he grasps her wrist before she can push open his door. 

 

“Oh all right,” her blue eyes grow soft—fond—and she backs off the door. Relieving Draco from having to experience another wave of deep shame. Pansy adds, “But you’d better bring them to meet me, or I’ll burst in next time and have a look at all the bits you’d rather I didn’t see.” It’s a threat he knows she won’t follow through on, Pansy—for all her talk—respects boundaries better than most. 

 

“I will,” he promises, “When it gets serious.” 

 

With that, she’s satisfied and nods with a pleased grin. “Good, I’ll get out of your way.” She’s full of cheek when she winks, adding, “Go have your fun, and remind them I taught you everything you know.” 

 

“Twat,” he chuckles. 

 

“Your favourite one,” she cackles before she disappears with a crack. 

 

*

 

“I’m not lonely,” he insists at the empty of his room. His fingers drawing along the line of his wand with lazy strokes. It feels as if Potter is there, with him, offering comfort in his presence and silence. “I just don’t know who to trust. I don’t know who I want to be in this post-war world.” He releases a sigh, “I want to be better, but I’m afraid I’ll fuck that up, too.” A tragic laugh leaves him, “It’s safer, easier, this way.” He stares at the water stains in his ceiling, trying to find art in the shapelessness. “I can’t tell my friends. Pansy has her own issues with her parents—her weight, her Muggle girlfriend, and her refusal to marry a man of their choosing. Blaise isn’t so much a friend as someone to use when my body needs breaking. Someone who is still awful who I can compare myself against. Crabbe died years ago. Even if he hadn’t he’d be too thick to understand the complexity of these feelings.” He sighs, gripping at the cheap scratchy sheets, “Goyle hasn’t said a word since the war ended. He sits in the Janus Thickey Ward staring blankly out the window—visiting him hurts so I only go on his birthday. I feel I owe him that much.” 

 

Magic reaches for him, wrapping him in an invisible hug and he cries against what is left of Potter in this wood.  _ Maybe all I have is you _ , he thinks, afraid to speak the words out loud for fear of them summoning Potter to him. He’s not ready to face this feeling. Draco’s not sure he ever will be. 

 

*

 

Mother barges in on him, one evening when he’s been too far down a bottle and is sicking up in the u-bend. “Aren’t you too old for this sort of behaviour,” Mother shakes her head. 

 

“Aren’t I too old for a lecture,” he snips in return and has a particularly uncomfortable dry heave. 

 

“That’s what you get for being a shit,” Mother has a vindictive tone. Draco doesn’t have to look to know exactly how annoyed with him she is. The lowbrow language, as she often calls it, gives away her disgust with him. He continues heaving up the contents of his stomach, causing her to release another sigh. “You’ve got to quit this game of self-pity and sacrifice, Draco.” 

 

He’s too apathetic to hiss, but he does give her a bit of a glare. A half-hearted one, at best, but it’s the angriest he’s been in awhile. Mother notices the expression, however, she doesn’t let it rankle her. Rather she continues in the same haughty way one would deal with a purposefully obtuse child, “Your apathy and refusal to live your life serves nothing but your ego. If you want to repent for your slights do more than wither away in this darkness.” 

 

“You sound like Potter,” Draco replies with a pout. 

 

“We meet for tea regularly,” Mother reminds him in a manner that rankles. “Harry’s growing into the sort of man I always hoped to see shining in you.” It’s meant to sting, that’s how the Black family shows love—through backhanded compliments, thinly veiled threats, and copious amounts of sarcasm. 

 

“Are you quite finished,” he stands on shaky legs, clutching the dark grey wall of his bathroom. 

 

“No,” Mother purses her lips, annoyed at his continued dismissal. She follows as he wobbles into his sitting room, where he half-heartedly shoos his Kneazle away from an old carton of Chinese food. “I’m here to encourage you to go to the giant, debauchery-filled party that idiot Zabini is hosting.” 

 

“You often complain Zabini is one bastard away from being a chav,” Draco snaps, annoyed that those in his orbit keep wanting him to pretend life is still happening. Can't they let him hate himself in peace?

 

“So he is, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to live.” She crosses her arms, “That’s something you need to be retaught, Draco. You keep moving like you’re dead, and, as your mother, it’s killing me to watch.” 

 

He’s not seen his mother cry since she clutched him after Voldemort died. It breaks something in him to see her openly weeping now. 

 

*

 

The fires rage in the distance, lighting the horizon with a golden orange glow. Draco watches them with a sense of trepidation—the joy makes him uncomfortable. So he turns to head further into darkness, away from the clearing Blaise chose in this area of Wiltshire. It’s as close to Godrick’s Hollow as it is Malfoy Manor—something Blaise chose to make a point. Being between two famous locations, of significant landmarks from the war, was meant to rewrite their darkness with a new generation. Draco doesn’t think copious amounts of sex will wash away the memories seeped into the soil. 

 

Nothing short of destroying the earth can rewrite the legacies that remain, and so Draco moves from the merriment. Content in his resolve to never forget. 

 

His wand settles into his palm, a warm weight of companionship from a Magic not his own. Settling him with a sense of ease as his feet lead him closer to another familiar place. This too gives him great comfort, and he breathes out a sigh of relief as he stands beneath the blooming May tree. 

 

The silence is broken by the gentle murmur of a deep voice, “This is rare.” Potter warmth, his magic, gives Draco a sense of ease greater than the wand he clutches. “Usually Hawthorns don’t bloom this early in May.” 

 

“It’s a special tree,” Draco whispers, his own voice drowned out in his ears beneath the beat of his pulse. 

 

“How so,” Potter is a pace behind him. Draco cannot read his face to discern his intent. His voice is too neutral, too calm, too different from the Potter Draco grew up with. The one who has left him behind. 

 

“It connects me and you.” 

 

*

 

They meet again beneath a hawthorn tree—the tree whose branch was chosen to craft their mutual wand. A wand they shared in a war. A war in which they stood on opposite sides. Now they stand facing one another again, and Draco wonders if—this too—is a moment in which they will remain enemies. 

 

Or perhaps this is a beginning of something more.

  
  



End file.
